Decay
by firelordzuko
Summary: The problem with immortality is, if you're ever unable to move on, you're stuck with your past.


****Code Geass is not mine. Implied necrophilia and incest.

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><p><strong>Decay<strong>

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><p><em>I believe if I should die,<br>And you should kiss my eyelids where I lie  
>Cold, dead, and dumb to all the world contains,<br>The folded orbs would open at thy breath,  
>And from its exile in the Isles of Death<br>Life would come gladly back along my veins. _

– Mary Ashley Townsend, _Love's Belief_

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><p><em>Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath,<br>Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty;  
>Thou art not conquer'd; beauty's ensign yet<br>Is crimson in thy lips, and in thy cheeks,  
>And death's pale flag is not advanced there. <em>

– William Shakespeare, _Romeo and Juliet_

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><p>That one morning, when the world for the first time since centuries came apart at the seams and changed its course, it had been a chain of unfortunate circumstances that broke through the rigid ceremonial of the court and – in its last consequence – reunited human and humanity.<p>

It had begun when the Lord Butler had caught a bad abdominal influenza and checked out sick. His proxy had been suffering from the same disease for several days. The position of the Gentleman of the Bedchamber, who would usually have been tasked with the mission, had been vacant for years and they had not been able to get through to the Lord Chamberlain, the Earl of Arundel, in time. The most delicate and most noble task:

To attend to His Majesty.

Frowning the maître de cuisine looked around his kitchen. The ceremonial had, for the first time within living memory, failed: so now it was for him to find a worthy replacement to serve His Majesty breakfast. Yet nowhere could he see a single person not working. If necessary, he would go himself, but then he'd first have to change … nervously the maître checked his watch – something like that had not happened in his thirty-two years aboard the _Damocles_, not once. He was running out of time- The fate of the entire world could depend on their sovereign taking his meal at the usual time …

"Hey, you!," he called out to a young maid sitting in a corner, peeling potatoes. Startled the girl looked up, slipped off with her knife and barely missed her finger. The maître sighed. "Take off the apron, wash your hands and come with me," he commanded.

Quickly the girl jumped up and did as told. Sceptically the maître examined her. Her uniform was creased, but clean.

"Come with me," he repeated and led the girl who quietly followed him to the part of the large kitchen where the meals for the handful of aristocrats, senior officials and officers residing by court were prepared. On a trolley-table of mahogany and silver was a complete place setting; under noble-looking dish covers waited plenty of exquisite dishes.

The silverware was decorated with the imperial monogram, the single letter 'L' surrounded by a laurel wreath and imperially crowned.

"Isn't … isn't that His Majesty's breakfast …?," she shyly asked.

The maître grimly nodded. "We've got a little staffing problem at the moment. For now you'll have to serve it to him."

The girl clasped her hands over her mouth. She wasn't particularly pretty, neither ugly, mediocre in her looks as in her references. Her brown hair was dull, her nose too broad, her lips too full, her cheekbones somewhat too high, her eyes not quite bright enough to be pretty.

He interrupted her. "Don't you talk back to me. It's quite easy if you obey a few rules. I'll explain it on the way."

The maid lowered her gaze and took the trolley. What was her name again? Whatever. Quickly they moved out of the kitchen, through halls and corridors, passed windows offering a glimpse on the Moloch on the ground below them. The girl halted for a moment, clung to the railing and obviously was fighting with dizziness looking down on Tokyo far, far below them.

"There are but three rules you got to remember. Firstly, you won't directly look into His Majesty's eyes and keep your head down. Secondly, you're as quite as possible. His Majesty doesn't like to be disturbed. Thirdly and most importantly, you won't speak to him. If he asks something, you answer quickly and precisely. You will _not _interrupt him, no matter what. If you _do_ speak with him, you will address him first as 'Your Majesty' and then as 'Sire'."

The maître paused for a moment and let the girl close the gap on him. "Understood?"

She shyly nodded.

They stood before the door to His Majesty's room. Two guardsmen in ancient uniforms flanked it. The maître paused. "Well," he lamely said and compassionately patted the girl, by now looking like someone on death row, on the head. "There is … something in this room, I heard, which might frighten you. Just keep a clear head, hold your breath and be quick."

With these last words of encouragement the maître turned and left for the kitchen. For a long moment the girl looked after him, then she stared at the tall door. She gulped. The maître's words had frightened her – there were only few people that had ever entered the imperial apartment. Could there really be some kind of monster in there?

"What you gonna do, shorty?," one of the soldiers annoyedly asked. "In or out?" – and he opened the door.

She took in a deep breath, then she entered, pushing her trolley before her like a shield. An antechamber. The door behind her was closed and that before her opened.

The girl gasped.

This is an act worth some attention, for it had a grand total of three reasons: firstly the room itself – it was a vast garden, almost a little park, atop the fortress, beneath a dome of glass. It was freezing and the air arid, most plants were dead. What remained grew exuberantly.

Secondly the air was fraught with beautiful music, a piano, tragic, dramatic, a hymn to past glory.

The third reason was the nauseating, treacly stench engulfing her.

Hesitatingly she entered the garden, fighting against the overwhelming desire to puke. In the centre of the dome she saw some furniture and a figure in white, so she approached it. One of the trolley's wheels squeaked.

A grand, black piano and an equally grand bed with pure white sheetings. At the piano sat a man that could be barely older than herself and played. His fingers glided across the keys without making a single mistake.

On the bed lay the corpse whose stench appalled her this strongly.

The maid choked and clasped her hand over her mouth, the man in white did not notice her. A key change, his lips moved.

She tried to remember, what to do – oh, yes, of course, remove the dish covers … the sweet stench burned in her eyes, lay on her tongue like mould and choked her –

_Flight forward_.

The corpse was dressed, she observed in an attempt to divert her attention from the deformed body, in an elaborate pink dress that once must have been very pretty, but now was dissolving itself. Yet the body of the girl was but an empty hull, at best …

How long had she been lying here? The maid had heard there were ways to keep bodies from decaying, yet knew no details. If something like that had been done, it would have been decades … perhaps even centuries since … for decay had started again.

The body was a grey, tallowy mass of half-decayed flesh; yet the dead's traits were still recognisable: a flat chest and stomach, a harmonious, soft and still somewhat aristocratic face, all her hair had disappeared. The eyes were closed peacefully. One could have thought her a sleeper, if not for the greyish complexion, if not for the mushy consistency of her flesh …

_By all gods, this _stench! … probably the look of the corpse only made it worse.

"What … what is _that_ …?," it escaped her. She clasped her hands before her mouth; too late. The music stopped abruptly; the man's head jumped.

She whirled around, almost knocking over the trolley.

The man was quite tall, she noticed as he slowly rose, and skinny, and adorned in multiple layers of white, jewel-cast, threadbare robes. Frenetic streaks of jet-black hair almost hid his eyes, his skin was of almost morbid pallor. Two deep-violet eyes stared at her animalistically, drilled through every protective barrier and seemed to pierce deep into her soul …

"What is what?," he countered. His voice was as cold and slicing as the air in the degenerated garden.

"The … the corpse, sir," she but stuttered. The man that could _bear_ being with this horrible_ … thing_, whoever it was, frightened her.

His mien darkened even more. He looked straight-out threatening now. The girl involuntarily retreated a bit and bumped against the bed's edge.

"I shall_ not _permit anyone to insult my dearest sister thus," he whispered roughly. Slowly he approached her. "You, lowborn, will demonstrate Her Highness the respect befitting her," the man commanded. He stared at her from far above with utter contempt, in his eyes shone ire and arrogance and madness.

Then finally the maid saw who he was. Slowly she sank to her knees, slowly she bowed, slowly her forehead touched the freezing stone.

"For... forgive me, my lord …," she whispered fearfully. Would she now be punished? Certainly. She doubted she and her family would survive this incredible mistake. She … she didn't want to die! "I … I beg Your Majesty, forgive me … I didn't … I didn't recognise you …"

His Majesty remained silent. The maid lowered her head even deeper, pressing her brow unto the icy floor. "Forgive me …"

"Rise," he finally said. His voice was but a rough whisper; the girl hurried to obey his order. She quickly stood, her head most humbly lowered, her hands shyly folded in her lap.

For a long moment the sovereign silently stared at her. The girl didn't dare to return his gaze. Silent horror engulfed her, an icy hand clasped her heart – was he considering the way she would be executed? She had heard of cases where entire families had been tortured and executed for the crime of a single member.

The seam of his threadbare robes were frayed and stained.

Finally he asked: "How are you called, wench?"

"Na... Nakamura Yuri, my sovereign lord …"

Long silence.

The girl bowed even deeper. Her shoulders trembled. The stench was even worse like this …

Slowly her lord and emperor turned, carefully sat on the edge of the bed and … tenderly stroke the cadaver's hand. She choked. The sovereign's eyes were focused on the corpse's countenance, tenderly, lovingly and completely fallen; a fanatic spark shone brightly in his eyes.

"Nunnally," he whispered and his eyes brightened for a moment. In his voice were complete surrender and breathless adoration. It took her a moment to understand that this had to be the name he called the horrid cadaver.

"Perhaps I am indeed the highest of all beings," the sovereign thought loudly. "For I am the only to recognise her perfection even like this."

And then he leaned forward and tenderly kissed the corpse on the lips.

For a moment everything turned black.

"No," she whispered, trying not to breathe. She felt incredibly sick, she was close to fainting. "You are the lowest."

Quickly she turned, trying not to puke. She ran, stumbled through the door as it opened, then through the second, deeply breathed in the clean, lively air, fell to her knees and threw up on the polished boots of one of the guardsmen.

* * *

><p>The air was fraught with variations over variations, variations on a theme by Chopin (Prélude in d-minor, op. 28 No. 24), <em>allegro appassionato, ff<em>! Every single one perfect and unique. Apace and graciously his fingers flew across the used keys, eliciting her canticle from the piano.

"I … I th... thank Your Majesty for the, er, promotion …"

Dam da da da dam, dam da da da dam … five thundering notes in the left, in the right hand trills, scales, arpeggios. D-minor.

"And … I thank Your … Your Majesty for your mercy as well, for … for not punishing me …"

His left hand plunged into the bass. Doom. Doom. Doom.

"Chief Butler Extraordinary to the Sovereign," he whispered and took his fingers from the keys. "Nifty title, isn't it?"

No answer.

Following a sudden idea he began to play again: Chopin this time, Prélude in d-minor, op. 28 No. 24.

"For... forgive me, Sire, but didn't you play the same thing just now?"

Dam da da da dam, dam da da da sorry? Irritatedly he stared on the keys.

"Does not your office honour and exalt you?," he inquired. "Do you desire for more?"

He could almost hear the girl blushing behind him. "No!," she quickly asserted. "You... Your Majesty have already done me far too much good. I … I only fear I won't be up to the office …"

And from the beginning, dam da da da dam, dam da da da dam … _allegro appassionato, _trills, scales, arpeggios, d-minor.

"That's your problem," he quietly said. Change of theme, change of theme, g-minor. "What did you mean, wench, when you said I were the lowest of beings?"

Doom, doom, doom. Slowly the emperor took his fingers from the keyboard and turned around on the piano stool, crossed his legs and stared at the girl in the black maid's uniform, awaiting an answer, completely motionless. She on the other hand had not moved from the doorstep, and despite the scarf and the thick coat she wore over her uniform, she shivered.

The maid winced as she heard his question.

"Forgive me, my lord!," she cried. Proskynesis.

"Answer the question. Speak truthfully."

Still kneeling, touching the floor with her face, the girl answered. "You … Sire, you love a corpse! How … how can it be that you cannot see you have to put the past to rest? For your sake, for the _entire world's _sake?"

He sighed, turned towards the piano again, reluctantly stared at the keyboard. "I cannot put past to rest, wench, for without _this _past there cannot be a future."

"I … I don't understand, my gracious lord …"

"I didn't expect you to."

She lowered her gaze.

"I cannot round my past off. I fear that which comes thereafter – how can I live if I exclude part of my soul from my heart?"

Slowly he rose and stood by Nunnally's bed. Still her beauty was radiant as the sun, both glorious and dreadful in its perfection. And yet – and yet, no matter what he did, he, the immortal, ran out of time. What would have given for the ability to stop chemistry! A kingdom indeed, an empire, his world. Yet not even he could live at minus 80 degrees Celsius. Would he want her to awake – only to freeze to death? Yet … neither could he die.

Every day he could see Nunnally becoming a little bit skinnier. He could see her upper layers of skin disappearing, he could see her inner organs dissolving … all that he could have endured, all he could have borne … it had been the traceless disappearance of her hair to finally drive him into madness. How he had loved her hair! _Everything _about it had been perfect, from its golden shine in the sunlight to the way it gently caressed her perfect visage like Helios' aureole and its silky smoothness and softness to its lovely scent.

And then it slowly, slowly yet visibly thinned out, then disappeared when the organic matter dissolved …

Many nightmares had burned their ways into his soul leaving horrible scars: Nunnally, covered in blood and traumatised, lying on the stairs below their mother. Nunnally, Suzaku and himself wandering through mountains of corpses. Nunnally, tied up beneath a bomb. Euphie, smiling sweetly and soaked in blood, wielding an automatic gun. Shirley, dying. Nunnally declaring herself his enemy … the grandiose failure of the Zero Requiem, black blood all over his hands, then the horror and the terror upon learning he was unable to atone.

_None of them _was as horrible as the thought that he could fail again – that his last ray of hope would darken, the last string he could cling to burst – that Nunnally's mortal hull could disappear ere he could sacrifice her on her altar … a world worthy of _her _flawlessness, her immaculateness. Ere he could persuade her to smile down on him, grant him her divine favour and return to him … or at least set him free.

"B... but why live with a corpse? I … I do not understand, Sire. She … she's _gone_, Sire!"

He closed his eyes for a moment, deeply breathing in and out. When he opened them again, Nunnally looked as though sleeping. For a short moment he thought to see an impish smile on her lips and had to smile.

"Just that is what I am afraid of: that her death could be as definite as any other human death."

The girl held her tongue confusedly, he looked up. Still she stood by the doorstep, her hands shyly folded. "Come closer," he commanded.

She blushed and made a face, then she hesitatingly approached him through the remains of the garden, halting about five metres from him and Nunnally. Her face looked even paler than before, even if she was not even close to Nunnally's deathly pale noblesse.

"I don't understand, my lord," the girl repeated. "Do you really believe you can reverse death?"

He hesitated. "I hope so," the emperor whispered. "It is my last chance to atonement."

The girl gulped and lowered her gaze. For a long, short moment he stared at Nunnally, enchanted. "Yet one question remains," he admitted without diverting his gaze. "You say you hadn't recognise me. Am I not on all coins of this world?"

"N... no, my lord."

"Am I not on all notes and all stamps, then? Is not my bust placed in the schools?"

"No, my lord. Forgive, my lord."

"So then my imperial monogram? My achievement of arms?"

"No … no, my lord."

He quietly stared into space. That … that indeed affirmed all fears he had had upon being unable to create a new court office to talk to the girl. The order to promote her to a position where she would take the duty of his attendance from the Chief Butler had not been executed. He had had to order the execution of the butler and all his male descendants to clear the office for the girl …

How many of his decrees, of the few dozens he had issued in the last centuries, had actually been executed?

"The world … forgot me …," it became manifest. "Do I actually still exist? Am I still the emperor?"

"F... forgive me, my lord!" Her face flushed bright red, her eyes wide open and full of fear.

Decades, no centuries he had been secure in the belief he held the world in his hands. For centuries he had never doubted that the decrees he issued from his hermitage, from Nunnally's sanctuary, had been executed to the letter. For centuries he had not doubted that he at least held – if not the abilities – the tool to destroy the world and recreate it from her image, and then to sacrifice it to her.

He noticed his hands were trembling. His pupils widened. _Nunnally, forgive me!_

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><p>When she entered the icy-cold garden two weeks later to serve breakfast, the emperor was nowhere in sight.<p>

Confusedly she looked around, shivered slightly due to the cold. Something like this had not happened once since she had begun attending to the monarch. For a moment she feared the worst – the emperor had seemed even moonier and even more uncommunicative than before – but then she dropped her fear: in the centre of the dome she could still see the corpse. She gulped, closed her eyes for a moment and deeply breathed in to prepare herself.

"Sire?," she called out. "S... Majesty? Where … where are you?"

"Here," a dull voice answered, barely audible. For a moment the girl waited for an explanation concerning the nature of said 'here', then she haltingly followed his voice.

The emperor was on the outer edge of the gardens, and she almost overlooked him as he was quietly seated on the floor, leaning against a half-frozen tree. He stared into space, through the thick glass of the dome down to the clouds.

Uncertainly the maid stood beside him. The monarch's face was even paler than usual, his raven hair dull and dishevelled, dark bags defaced his worn-out eyes. He didn't give her a single look.

"You … you aren't looking well today, Majesty …"

Disgustedly he grunted. "Thanks. Neither do you, wench."

She blushed and lowered her gaze, reflexively touching the bruise on her brow. The emperor sighed and threw back his head, dully gazing at the incredibly blue sky.

"Sit," he ordered quietly. "Sit by me. I shall need it."

Her face burned, but she obeyed and sat down next to him, shyly examining the floor.

"Forgive me if I'm crossing my limits, but … Is … did something happen, Sire?," she dared ask after a long moment of silence. The emperor did not reply. "I... it's just, you're so … so … er …," she broke off. Quietly she looked down at the floor again.

There was a dead silence.

"I was outside," he then whispered. "I was down there on my earth."

The girl stared at him with wide eyes. That … she had never heard of something like that. The emperor was expected not to mingle with the commoners. The equation as taught by school, politics and media was so simple even she understood: the emperor ruled the world. That was a hard, responsible task – to fulfil it, the clear, august thoughts of His Majesty must not be tainted by the chaos of the world.

If His Majesty died, if he only was hurt, if he was kept from exercising his power for but one day, mankind would break apart, chaos would overrun the world and the ancient times of war and horrors would return.

If the sovereign had dared to leave his secure sanctuary … the girl was unable to imagine the consequences.

"And lo, I stepped down unto my world and I mingled with the people and I listened to its sounds. I listened to its word, its music, its thoughts." A bitter look entered his violet eyes. "And I saw the world was bad. And first of all I saw … I saw that it's no longer mine."

Confusedly she frowned. "What … what do you mean by that? You are the lord; this is your world."

He gave a dry laugh. "So, you think so? Is that what they teach you today?" His lips narrowed to a capillary line. "I left the shuttle from the _Damocles _in the part of the city called Shibuya in my lifetime. Oh, certainly I was stared at and made fun of due to my – admittedly poor – attire! But just as well I marvelled at these my slaves that were so different, so exotic from all I knew. Their clothes, their habits, their thoughts … even their language, even your language I could barely understand. They speak English, not Japanese, but the English they speak is no longer mine."

Slowly and incredibly exhaustedly he rose, stepped to the glass and looked down on the clouds.

"I asked an old one, imitating your awkward dialect as well as I could, what this land was named – what year it was – and how it was governed. I think I was ashamed of asking you, wench. He drove me away – me! – whom he probably thought a cheeky punk.

I asked a young one, and from his taunts and insults, directed on my exotic looks and my speech, I learnt the following: the land was no longer called Japan, not Tokyo, not even Area 11! But rather _District 011A_."

He halted, shuddered. "I don't quite know – it sounds good, certainly. It sounds like something _she_ would have enjoyed. This … blind nationalism of my times is to be destroyed indeed. Yet it frightened me that countries and peoples should just become numbers again. Faceless, grey entities in a folder – it was … so different."

He sighed. "Thus three days passed by. I would descend down unto Earth, interrogate people, more often than not without success, trying to learn more and more about this world. Did you know there are no armies anymore?"

The girl startled, then frowned. "_Ah... ahmys_, Sire?," she tried to repeat the word. It felt incredibly foreign on her tongue.

The emperor threw her a surprised glance, then he shook his head. "No matter. In the fourth night I sold one of the rubies on my robes to a jeweller I had seen before. I bought me new clothes from the money, then again I wandered through the streets, silently this time. I saw skyscrapers touching the clouds. I saw people laugh and cry, I saw decline and florescence, often together. I … saw a public library and entered it."

He closed his eyes and for a tiny moment she thought to see him smile blissfully as he reminisced. "It was just as it is supposed to be. Long rows of shelves, reading tables, books. The scent of paper was in the air, the scent of dust. It was warm." Then the smile disappeared. "I wandered through the rows, here and there took out a book and skimmed through it. I didn't understand much, but I drew in every single letter like a sponge."

He halted, frowned. "But one think I did not understand. Nowhere I could find one of the books I sought for. Call me vain, I always have been – I wanted to know what your historians write on me. What they write on Nunnally. No – no, please don't ask."

She shut her mouth. How had he managed to read her thoughts?

"I inquired with one of the librarians where the histories stood." The emperor laughed drily. Tormented. "Do I really need to say he did not understand? Well, so I searched on my own. But when I had spent two hours in the library and explored every corner thrice, it became horribly obvious: there was no such thing."

For a long moment he silently and infinitely depressed stared into space.

"That frightened me. So I sought for an edition of Homer – oh, how long had it been that I had read the Sixteenth Book of the Iliad! But nowhere I found him. So then I sought for an edition of Dante – I wanted to, no, I had to re-read the _Inferno_! But once and I would have had myself imprisoned for another five centuries. Yet neither Dante did I find. Then …"

He broke off.

"Oh, my horror," he then whispered. "Homer and Dante I could easily have stomached, but not … this … imagine, everything you thought to know about man had at once been dissolved into thin air. Imagine you didn't understand the world anymore. Imagine you were an ancient relic."

They silenced. "W... what happened to frighten you thus?," the girl finally dared to ask hesitatingly. She had no clue what her lord was talking about, but she could see the terror in his eyes. She saw his tormented gaze, she saw his trembling hands, she saw the sweat-drops on his brow. How could it be, she wondered, how could it be that this human … that this creature had _everything _– except for happiness?

The garden was fraught with an appalling sweet stench, but by now she almost had accustomed herself to the vapours of decomposition.

"I sought for Shakespeare."

The girl looked at him quizzically. The monarch threw her a glance. "You don't know him, wench, do you?," he asked, his voice sepulchral.

She did not reply and lowered her head.

"I wanted to read," he continued in whispers, "Read and – perhaps – perhaps – _perhaps _for a shot while … find peace. Rest. Peace … but a few lines from _Hamlet_, a monologue perhaps from _Henry V_, but a scene from _Macbeth_! Only this much … only this little … would have been enough."

Again they silenced. There was pure desperation in his eyes, there was a spark of madness.

"They had nothing by him. Not one sonnet. This … this is no longer my world."

Silence. "That … I'm sorry," the maid then helplessly said. The emperor grunted disgustedly.

"Pity …," he mumbled. "Pity helps no one. Your _pity_ … humiliates me. _Pity _defeats fear, and without fear I am nothing. I want you to fear me … no, do not _pity _me."

She didn't know what to respond –

"Who … er, who was this Shakespeare you speak of? A … a friend of Your Majesty's?"

"You …," the emperor broke off and, resigning, shook his head. "Whatever. It's no use worrying now. He was … a great writer. He died twenty-eight and four-hundred years before my birth, but his works still were counted as the highest art the world ever brought forth. In Britannia – you will not know it anymore, but it was my fatherland – there were many people able to quote him from their heart."

"I never heard of him before … and those names you mentioned?"

"His plays. Some of them, that is."

For a moment the girl thoughtfully stared into space. It was obvious this _Shakespeare _meant a lot to the emperor and he was shocked she did not know him. But if he really had been as famous as he said, how could he then have been forgotten?

The emperor seemingly read her thoughts, for he quoted: "But men are men; the best sometimes forget."

The girl knew she was not particularly bright or well-educated and that she would never achieve much. Thick books frightened her, her grades at school had been more bad than mediocre. But if not even a library had the books of this _Shakespeare _person – she frowned, tried to concentrate. Did that mean he had fallen into oblivion? And if yes, why?

"What did he, er, write?," she tentatively inquired. The emperor sighed.

"He wrote … of life and death, love and hate, happiness and desperation. He wrote of man. In one of his plays … oh, you should have seen it. A king is slain and his throne stolen, by his own brother no less. But to the son of the deceased appears his father's ghost and has him avenge the crime … And the prince feigns madness to survive; yet his lover … and then, at the performance he unmasks the murderer, kills him – and is himself felled …"

She didn't quite understand – she could not even hope to understand the emperor's thoughts, even less so when they were even more erratic than usual. Still she smiled and noted: "That sounds very sad … but I wish I could've seen it!"

He laughed drily. "Well, I guess I could stage it for you, but …"

Her breath caught, her eyes brightened. "Really?," she asked excitedly, "You would do that?"

Irritatedly he raised a brow. "I didn't quite mean it that way … oh by my sister, _kindly _stand up! How is one supposed to have a chat if you keep kowtowing?"

He rubbed his brow and the girl hesitatingly rose. Her cheeks were burning. "Very well. I shall give you _Hamlet. _Do rest assured, however, that you are the greatest pain in the neck I have known for five centuries …"

She smiled. "Thank you, Sire."

* * *

><p>"As thou'rt a man, give me the cup: let go; by heaven, I'll have't. O good Horatio, what a wounded name, things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me! If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart absent thee from felicity awhile, and in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, to tell my story." Hounded gaze to far away. "What warlike noise is this?"<p>

Swiftly he took in the position of courtier Osric. "Young Fortinbras, with conquest come from Poland, to the ambassadors of England gives this warlike volley."

Short look to the audience; the girl stared, enchanted. Hamlet.

"O, I die, Horatio!," he whispered dully, sank unto the bed next to Nunnally. Her perfect scent filled his lungs, her eyes closed in after-life as in life; almost on its own his hand took hers. "The potent poison quite o'er-crows my spirit: I cannot live to hear the news from England; but I do prophesy the election lights on Fortinbras: he has my dying voice; so tell him, with the occurrents, more and less, which have solicited."

Slowly his head sank into the soft pillows. His lips were by her ear. "The rest … the rest is silence," he whispered and closed his eyes.

For a long moment he paused, motionless. _Now cracks a noble heart. Good night sweet prince: and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!_, he reminded himself of Horatio's next lines. Then his audience erupted in applause. Frowningly he rose and offered a bow.

"I was not quite done," he drily noted. The girl blushed, he interrupted an apology. "Did you enjoy it?," he inquired. She merely nodded. "Yes … very."

Slowly he moved past her, sat by the piano and crossed his legs.

"Now it is for me to learn," he said. "Let me offer you my theory on your world."

Again she nodded. He raised a brow.

"Earth is divided into district, all of which are governed autonomously despite being part of a greater entity. All authority is derived from me, but there is no global government." She nodded. "Little to no people speak any language other than English." Nod. "There is neither any kind of historiography, nor is anyone interested in the era before my reign. The world is static." Hesitation, then a nod. "I am being venerated as some sort of god that cannot leave his golden cage without endangering the world – at least by some."

The girl frowned. "Of course," she said. "Don't you believe that?"

He ignored her objection, jumped up and moved up to Nunnally's bed again. Those informations confirmed his worst fears. Earth's structures had in the centuries of his 'sleep' hardened, cooled – indeed, this world was static. Still, if it really would happen, if _she _would return to his side once he brought _her _the sacrifice – but did he even have the power to change something?

No. No … his eyes widened, was it possible he had erred this much?

He stood before her high altar that was her body. Slowly he sank to his knees, lowered his head in prayer. _Forgive me! _He screamed, God! God! How could he mock a poor fellow thus! The girl behind him retreated in fear.

Euphie. Shirley. Rolo. Kallen. Suzaku. Dead, all dead! C.C., vanished from the face of earth! _Nunnally_, raptured, taken from him _for ever_! And he, drowning in blood, red before his eyes on his hands in his mouth not allowed to die! He screamed; and he must scream. Vanished from time, all exposed to time, abandoned by time, all of them – dead! And he not allowed. Scream! Scream! No more. Again he felt the sword pierce him, again and again he stabbed himself, _requiem __æ__ternam dona meam_! Failed. Blood on his hands, in his throat, blood everywhere, her blood in between, accusing glance from hollow eyes, failed. Failed. Failed. Steel, blood, he screamed, life!

For what was more frightening than life, gruesome, cruel, eternal, pristine clear _deathless _life? Life without her.

From somewhere sounded a bloodcurling, shrill cry, he knew the voice. He agonised on it, then he shut his mouth and the scream ended. He was filled with a strange clarity, diabolic in its simplicity and yet – clean, for who could deny it to him? There was but one chance, but one atonement – the atonement all who had come before him had chosen. "Are you still there, wench?"

"Y... yes, Sire …"

"You'll have to do me a favour."

* * *

><p>That's it. Please tell me what you think.<p> 


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